


We All Fall Down

by ofelia_song



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Horror, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Murder Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:27:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28764048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofelia_song/pseuds/ofelia_song
Summary: It's funny. She remembers thinking there might be dead people hiding in the attic.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Kudos: 2





	We All Fall Down

**Author's Note:**

> please revel in my fuckery

There’s something a bit…odd, Maria decides. About the house. It’s probably just her insecurities talking. Yes, that’s all it is. She’s got plenty of insecurities. Her nose, just this side of too large; her degree, from a community college; her parenting skills, constantly jeopardized. This… _thing_ , or whatever, is just another on that very long, long list. 

Maria’s overreacting. Nothing to be concerned about. Not at all. 

The thing is, she _knows_ this was a good move for the family: David’s new job is promising, the school is well-reputed, and the city is no place to raise children anyhow. And the house is lovely. If Maria can, with certainty, take pride in anything about her part in this, it’s the house. It’s old, yes, but in remarkable condition, considering it’s been empty for nearly forty years. The property is absolutely beautiful, too — an old piece of farmland bordering a lake. Maria wonders how the Lancasters ever managed to leave.

Logically, this was a sound decision. It’s simply that, now, she’s questioning her judgment a bit. Not that there is anything overtly…wrong. Just — she has a _feeling_. And with Maria, _feelings_ do not go away. 

Nonetheless, it’s just that — a feeling. She’s trying to find something to nitpick, that’s all. Maria is of the opinion there’s no way she can do anything without messing up. There is nothing wrong. In fact, this is a good sign. Everything’s going so well that her mind has to make up something for her to worry about. It’s fine, she tells herself.

It is _not_ fine. This whole thing was stupid, anyways. Sonya was perfectly happy, but _no_ , Dad _had_ to go get a job in a different town, so they had to put all their stuff in boxes and put some in the moving truck and squish the rest into the back seat. She spent seven hours being crushed by Mom’s stupid ugly bowls just to get to the boringest place in the world. It’s all grey and dull, like pictures of Grandma and Grandpa before they got all wrinkly. The people are lame, too. They just stared at Sonya through the windows of the car when Dad got lost on the way here and parked at the gas station. The new house isn’t even _in_ the town, either. They’re the only people who live on, like, the entire freaking road. Everything about this is so stupid.

The house is the stupidest, though. It’s old and smells funny. Alex said it’s because corpses are rotting in the walls, but Sonya doesn’t believe him because he’s too dumb to know the word ‘corpse’ by himself. Older brothers are _so_ annoying. Mom always says that Sonya’s more mature than Alex even though she’s only twelve and he’s a teenager. Stupid Alex. Dead bodies would be in the attic, not the walls. It doesn’t even smell like dead stuff, just mold and dust bunnies.

Sonya should’ve kicked Alex in the knee when they were choosing rooms. The one she’s stuck with is just the _worst_. Mom and Dad got the best room because they’re grown-ups, and Alex got second best because he’s bigger and made it up the stairs first. Hers is in some kind of weird hallway on the other side of the house, which _sucks_. It’s not, like, really small, but it’s cold and scary and right next to the washing machine. Mom must’ve gone to the store and asked them for the loudest washing machine to ever exist as some kind of punishment for ungrateful children. 

At least Alex won’t hear her screech at creaky noises in the middle of the night and make fun of her. Sonya’s not _scared_ of dead people, but she still gets creeped out easily, not that she’d ever tell anyone. It doesn’t help that the trapdoor to the attic is right in the middle of the ceiling. There’s literally no point in it being there. The thing doesn’t even open — Mom and Dad went up the ladder earlier and neither of them could unlock it. Like, seriously, who designed this house?

Sonya sighs and flops back onto her bed. She’d complain again, but Dad told her to shut up ages ago. Whatever. It’s not like there’s anyone around to hear. Mom and Dad went out grocery shopping, and she could not care less where stupid Alex is. He got bored and started making fun of her nose when Dad took his Nintendo away. Now she’s grounded and stuck in this stupid room for punching him in the face. Lame.

A dust cloud finds its way up Sonya’s nose, making her sneeze.

The trapdoor opens with a loud squeaky noise. She blinks at the glowy eyes stare down at her.

‘Oh, hi,’ she says.

‘Do you think leaving the kids alone at the house was a good idea?’

Maria closes her eyes and lets out a slow breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. Her doctor said it was good for relieving stress, though by now she finds it more useful for communicating the point. ‘David,’ she begins carefully. There are many times she’s reminded of how much she loves her husband, what a wonderful man he is, but this is not one of them. ‘David, it was your idea. We’ll just be gone an hour. They’ll be fine.’

‘I think you’re underestimating what a couple of kids could get up to in an hour.’ 

Maria opens her eyes to glare at his shit-eating grin. ‘David.’

‘Alright, sorry,’ he says, raising his hands in mock surrender. ‘Let’s just get what we came for and go.’

She shakes her head, looking back down at the list. ‘We need bread.’

‘On your right.’

Maria reaches for the loaf but is met by another, foreign hand. She blinks.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she manages, withdrawing. ‘It’s fine, you can have it.’

‘Thank you.’ The hand belongs to an arm, white and spindly, just like the woman it is attached to. It moves to grasp the plastic packaging, but floats to a stop. ‘I haven’t seen you around. Are you new in town?’ A polite smile works its way onto the papery face.

‘Yes. I’m Maria Taylor, and this is my husband, David. We just moved in with our children to the old Lancaster house up the hill.’

The woman’s expression freezes. ‘I see. Interesting.’ With that, she flits off down the aisle.

The bread remains on the shelf, untouched. 

‘How’s school going, kids?’

Sonya sighs, poking warily at her mashed potatoes. They sag depressingly.

‘Fine,’ Alex mutters.

Mom and Dad glance at each other like they think they’re being sneaky. She’s _right here_ , she can see them.

Mom clears her throat. ‘Well, that’s not very informative,’ she says, smiling weirdly. ‘Do you like your classes? Did you make any friends?’ The last one is directed at Sonya.

She gives up on the weird, smushed goop on her plate, looking up at Mom. ‘No,’ she replies, completely not-passive-aggressively, ‘I have not, just like I did not yesterday, or the day before, or the day before, or literally any other time you’ve asked me.’

Dad makes kind of a weird frown at her, like he’s trying to look worried but doesn’t know how. ‘Sonya, I know you have trouble interacting with kids your own age, but we think you’ll have fun if you give it a try.’

‘It’s not _my_ fault people hate me,’ she bites out, and immediately regrets it.

‘Oh, Sonya,’ Mom gasps. ‘Honey, we don’t hate you! We just want you to be happy. You know we love you, okay?’

Sonya’s mouth presses into a hard line. ‘I’m tired. I’m going to bed.’

As she stalks out of the room, she hears Alex say, ‘Wait, Mom, you love me too, right?’

‘Of course, sweetie,’ Mom reassures him.

‘Oh, good. Then I have something to tell you about my math test.’

Dad’s laughter follows her up the stairs. Sonya makes sure to stomp extra hard.

Whatever. She slams her door and locks it, then climbs up the ladder and pounds on the trapdoor. It opens to reveal the familiar pale, bony face.

‘They’re being _stupid_. Come play dolls with me.’

She hops down, spirits lifted. She doesn’t need to deal with the dumb kids at school when she’s got a best friend living in the attic.

Maria puts her head in her hands. ‘I’m worried about her, David, I really am.’ She’s not concerned with Alex hearing, he’s in his room absorbed in some video game.

‘I know, Maria,’ he says. ‘She’s probably just having trouble adjusting. I think you’re stressing about this too much.’

She raises her head and glares at him. ‘David. This is _not_ normal. We’ve been here for two months and she hasn’t made any friends. She’s falling behind on her schoolwork, she’s zoning out when we try to talk to her, and she spends hours on end shut up in her room. That’s not like her. She used to be so friendly and cheerful,’ she laments. ‘What happened?’

‘Maria.’ David reaches across the table and grasps her hand. ‘I admit she’s acting strangely, but she seems to be happy, at least. Let’s give it some more time before we decide to do anything, okay? I moved a lot when I was a kid, so I know what it’s like. I think she just has some things she needs to sort out on her own.’

‘All right.’ She takes a deep breath and nods. ‘All right. We’ll wait a bit.’

‘Yeah, see?’ David grins reassuringly. ‘It’ll be okay. You worry too much.’

Maria laughs, but it feels more like a sob.

‘I know they’re talking about me.’ Sonya finishes maneuvering the doll so it’s where it belongs. Its head is in the toilet. The doll is supposed to be Alex. ‘It’s really stupid. I don’t know how to deal with them.’ 

She’s saying ‘stupid’ too much. It’s, like…she doesn’t know what else to say. Whatever. It’s not like she’s gonna be judged.

‘Maybe I should just stick all their heads in toilets. I should definitely do it to Alex.’ She turns to look at Attic Friend. ‘What do you think?’

Attic Friend just stares blankly at her.

Sonya frowns. ‘Do you even talk?’

Attic Friend shrugs.

‘Whatever.’ She rolls her eyes, turning back to play with her dolls. The mom needs a different dress. Attic Friend put the daughter on the roof, for some weird reason. 

Sonya turns back to Attic Friend as something occurs to her. ‘Do you have a family?’ Attic Friend shrugs.

‘Did you have a family?’

A nod.

‘Huh.’ She takes a moment to process this. ‘What happened to them?’

Attic Friend doesn’t blink at her for a long time, then looks back at the dollhouse. Sonya follows the motion.

Attic Friend reaches out.

The daughter falls down.

Then the brother.

Then the mother.

Then the father.

‘Huh,’ she says again. ‘Are you going to do that to us?’

Maria jolts awake. She breathes heavily, heart racing. She can’t recall dreaming of anything, just a vague sense of _something_. It fades slightly with the adrenaline. 

She sighs, frustrated. The angry red of _3:27_ searing her eyes, she flops back down on her side.

‘David?’ she tries. ‘Are you up too?’

‘Mmm.’

‘I swear, it’s uncanny how this happens. Every so often I wake up in the middle of the night, not knowing _why_ , and I can never go back to sleep. But it’s always 3:27. It’s…’

She tries to put a name to what she’s feeling. She hates the not knowing, the uncertainty of whatever’s going on. 

She’s lying. She knows exactly what it is.

‘… _wrong_.’

And that’s what Maria doesn’t want to acknowledge. Because it’s been there from the beginning.

‘Hmm.’

She jumps. ‘David?’ she ventures. 

A loud snore greets her in response.

She has to stifle a laugh, just at the sheer _normalcy_ of it. Maybe it’s just in her head. Maria settles back down into bed, intent on conquering this sleep paralysis demon or whatever it is her mind is throwing at her. She frowns, shivering.

It’s cold.

Maria sighs. ‘Who the f — _frick frackity snick snack_ left a window open?’ she grumbles.

Out in the hallway, a slight draft brushes her shoulders. Heading off in the direction of Sonya’s room, she mentally composes her rant.

‘Seriously, it’s November. You should know better. Do I have to make you wash the dishes? You never listen, it’s like talking to — ’

The bed is empty.

‘ — nobody.’

The window is open. Sonya is gone.

Sonya is gone.

‘Sonya!’ she screams, rushing downstairs. Her arm catches on the back door, the night air blistering, but it doesn’t matter.

_Sonya is gone_. 

‘Sonya!’ she screams again. ‘Sonya!’ Maria looks around wildly, looking for anything, a trace, where did she go _where did she go_

A light hovers in the corner of her eye. She turns, daring, hoping — 

It’s her. Face illuminated and shadowed, a lantern held high, still in her pajamas. 

Maria remembers how to breathe.

But she’s frozen, the realization holding her hostage. Sonya moves for her, taking a step forward. And another, and another, until she’s an arm’s length from Maria and a thousand years away.

She wants to hold Sonya. She wants to wrap her in blankets. She wants to cradle her face in her hands.

She wants to lock her in her room and never let her go. 

What she does instead is say, ‘You’ve got dirt on your pants.’

‘Oh.’

Maria wants to smack herself. But she can’t move. All she can do is stand there in the cold and drink in the sight of her daughter.

Her eyes fall to the nebulous shadow dangling from Sonya’s hand. It’s imprecise, in the faint wash of the lantern, but vaguely humanoid. She makes out dirty cloth and a shock of black yarn.

Dark red, too.

‘Hello Sonya. I’m Ms. Sharpe, but you can call me Julia.’ The lady is old. Ancient. She’s probably, like, Mom’s age, but with yellow hair instead of brown.

Sonya doesn’t want to answer. She just sinks lower into the chair, an impressive feat considering it’s a hard, plasticky vinyl. She refuses to make eye contact. If she does, the lady wins.

‘I understand you’re here today because your parents are worried about you. Would you like to tell me a bit about that?’

She crosses her arms and glares at the wall.

The lady sighs. ‘Sonya. I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me.’

More silence. 

‘Alright. I guess I can’t make you talk. Do you want some candy instead?’

Pfft. Who does this lady think she is? Sonya’s not _weak_. She won’t be bribed by some stupid kindergarten trick.

She takes a peek, _out of spite_ , obviously. Huh.

‘That’s a lot of candy.’

The lady smiles. ‘See? That wasn’t so hard.’

Sonya sends her the most menacing scowl she can conjure, but the lady just leans forward  
on her elbows instead of backing away.

‘I have Reeses Pieces.’

Okay. Maybe Sonya’s a little weak.

Half an hour later, she’s demolished an entire box and spilled her guts. Figurative, not literal guts, though those might be coming back up soon. Sonya has no regrets.

Then it’s over and Mom and Dad take her home. She gets to play with Attic Friend for a  
while, because Alex is somewhere playing stupid video games with other dumb, stinky teenage boys and Mom and Dad went back to talk to the candy dealer. So all things considered it’s a pretty good day.

‘Mr. and Mrs. Taylor, please take a seat.’

‘Oh, uh. Of course.’

‘I’m going to be frank with you — ’

‘It’s bad, isn’t it?’

‘Mrs. Taylor, I would appreciate if you could refrain from interrupting.’

‘Oh. Oh, yes, I — I’m sorry.’

‘As I was saying. Sonya displays some neurodivergent characteristics, but that is not my  
concern. What I am worried about are the circumstances in which she has been placed.’

‘Yeah, we know that a change of scenery can be stressful — ’

‘Mr. Taylor, that is not what I am talking about.’

‘What?’

‘You don’t know?’

‘Know what? What are you talking about?’

‘Really? Mrs. Taylor, did you bother learning anything at all about the Lancaster house  
before you moved in?’

‘My room’s on the other side of the house. It’s right under the attic, so I called her Attic Friend.’

‘Her?’

‘The girl who lives in the attic, duh. She’s my best friend.’

‘I see. Go on.’

‘Anyway, Mom and Dad tried to open the trapdoor earlier and they couldn’t, which is  
kinda funny because it locks from the outside. It’s, like, a super lock. On steroids. Going to the attic. So I thought, who the heck designed this house? It’s so stupid. I guess Attic Friend figured out a way to lock it from the inside, cause she’s the only one who can open it. She only opens it for me, though. Which is, like, cool. I only want her to play plays dolls with _me_.’

_It’s an old photograph. Faded, stained on the edges, torn. Somehow, it holds more life than any of the people in this grey, grey town._

_Scrawled on the back, in light blue ink: Sarah, John, Charlie, Talia. 1958._

_The stiffness doesn’t suit them, farmer family they are. John holds a pitchfork, back ramrod straight. The hand rests on Charlie’s shoulder — he’s only nine, unused to standing still. Sarah, plain as the wheat she grows, takes John’s other side. She grips her daughter’s hand like she might fade away any second. A cursory glance indicates she might. Talia is thin, gaunt and frail, closer to death at five years old than her mother at thirty. She clutches a ragged cloth doll with dark yarn hair, staring vacantly to the left. If one looks close enough, her eyes look back._

‘So then I went to get the doll, because Attic Friend missed her and got all mopey and sad. Mom started screeching when she saw Mira.’

‘Mira?’

‘Mira’s the doll. Anyways, I don’t get why she was so freaked out. It was just a little blood. It was all dried up, too.’

‘Did Attic Friend name the doll?’

‘Yeah, she told me, but she doesn’t really talk a lot. She’s weird. I’m kinda weird too. I don’t like people that much, but I’m fine hanging out with her, ‘cause she gets me, you know? My family doesn’t get me. They’re exhausting. Mom just wants her friendly, extroverted toddler back and Dad doesn’t take anything seriously. Alex stinks, but at least we both agree we couldn’t care less about each other.’

‘My brother Vincent gave this file to me. He’s got a fascination with mysteries and too much time on his hands. This was one of the first investigations he conducted, about ten years ago. That was when the Sullivans were still alive.’

‘The Sullivans?’

‘They owned the property next to yours. Knew the Lancasters well. Not that it did them any good, in the end.’

‘She told me her family was kinda stinky, too. They didn’t get her either. Families treat you like you’re fragile, like one of Grandma’s ugly bowls. They love you, but they don’t know how to show it in the right way.’

‘Do you feel your experiences are similar to your Attic Friend’s?’

‘Well, yeah. After the Mira thing Mom looked like she didn’t ever wanna let me outside again. So sometimes I go through the window, like Attic Friend does.’

‘She comes and goes through the attic window?’

‘Duh. She can’t stay there all the time, obviously.’

_This one is dated June 1960. Neighbours. Seven people gathered around a tractor. They’re smiling, this time._

_John and Sarah in the middle, with Peter and Mae Sullivan on the right, Charlie and Talia on the left. On the far right, Peter and Mae’s son, Matthew Sullivan. He’s nineteen, quite handsome and he knows it. Opposite him, Talia looks younger than her eight years, not entirely visible behind her mother’s skirt. Sarah clutches her hand like a vise, and Talia looks at Matthew with some kind of emotion in her eyes._

‘She doesn’t like talking about what went on near the end. She was, like, angry and stuff, for not being seen. She’s sorry about it, though. It was an accident. She didn’t mean for things to be like that. She especially hates talking about the man. But, like, I think I sort of understand why. She didn’t get back then that it shouldn’t have happened. She knows it was wrong, now. You can’t just keep someone in an attic forever.’

‘He interviewed the remaining Sullivans, Peter and Mae. Their observations of Talia Lancaster were that she was incredibly strange and withdrawn. Peter Sullivan was of the opinion that she was lacking intelligence, using a rather derogatory term that might be better put as ‘developmentally challenged.’ Mae Sullivan had decided quite the opposite, that Talia was in fact extremely perceptive, though it was not readily apparent. Whichever was true, what we can conclude is that Talia Lancaster was, as one might say, odd.’

‘Could I take some candy back for her? I don’t know if she’d eat it, but I think she’d like me just bringing her some anyways.’

_1961\. Lancaster Family._

_Talia is not there._

‘I think you should stay away from her, actually.’

_15 October, 1963. County Police Files._

_A set of photos. Coloured, but pixelated and grainy. Even so, the distinctive brown-red on the sharp lake rocks is easy to see._

‘Why?’

_14 October, 1963. Matthew Sullivan, now twenty-two, kisses his mother goodnight and goes to bed. He is never seen again, though some argue it might be him on those rocks the police put in plastic bags. DNA profiling is not a thing that exists yet._

_8 November, 1963. The mailman notices the Lancasters haven’t collected their letters in three weeks, and brings the backlog with him up to the house out of courtesy. No one answers him. There is an odd smell, like beef forgotten in the back of the fridge._

_9 November, 1963. A detective notes the appliances in the house have all short-circuited. The clocks have stopped._

‘Because what you think happened may not be what actually happened.’

_At the end of it all, there’s too much mystery to draw any type of conclusion. The files languish in a cabinet until Vincent Sharpe goes looking for people who died thirty years ago. That doesn’t stop the townspeople from gossiping, though. They only know four things, but those four are more than enough:_

_1\. Matthew Sullivan and Talia Lancaster have disappeared. Blood on the rocks._

_2\. Sarah, John, and Charlie Lancaster are dead._

_3\. Sometimes, there will be a light on in the attic of the old Lancaster house._

_4\. Talia Lancaster is very, very odd._

‘I don’t believe you.’

_The clocks are stopped. 3:27._

‘I’m going home now.’

_Mama can’t see her._

‘Sonya, do you understand what is going on?’

_Mama can’t see her._

‘Yes.’

_Talia screams._

‘And I don’t care.’

_3:27._

‘Oh my god. We’ve left Sonya alone with a murderer.’ 

‘Oh, hi. Do you want to play dolls again?’

Maria floors it on the way home. David already called the police. They sit together in silence, faces white, in perfect understanding of one another.

In that moment, they feel fear like they have never known it.

‘You want me to come up there?’

As they crest the hill, Maria’s heart jumps in her chest. The light in the attic is on.

_I to keep you safe._

It’s kinda funny. She remembers thinking there might be dead people hiding in the attic. 

They might as well be racing for their lives. The thunderstorm pours down on their heads as they jump out of the car. A scream reverberates in the air, followed by a terrible crash.

‘Sonya!’ Maria shrieks. She runs for the door, tunnel vision guiding her up the stairs, down the hallway, to the ladder. God, she doesn’t want to imagine what an adult psychopath has done with a twelve-year-old child at her mercy.

She scales the rungs, scrambling for purchase with rain-slick hands. Up, up. She reaches the trapdoor wrenching it open. David follows closely behind.

The first thing Maria registers is that Sonya is unharmed. Alive and unharmed, if a bit shaken. She scoops her daughter into her arms and holds on for dear life. Sonya clings to her, hyperventilating. She’s okay.

_She’s okay._

‘Oh my god,’ Maria gasps. Strong arms wrap around both of them, grounding her.

‘We thought you were gone,’ David sobs into their daughter’s hair.

Sonya clutches at both of them. ‘I’ve always been right here,’ she whispers. ‘It’s okay, Mom. We’re okay. We’re okay.’

And just like that, they are.

She doesn’t know how long they stay there on the floor, grasping at each other like they might disappear. If only this had happened a while ago, Maria thinks absurdly. 

A chilly, wet hand touches her shoulder.

She gasps, whipping around to stare into bright eyes. The eyes look back  
.  
It’s funny, how wrong they were. They should have listened to Sonya. They always should have listened to Sonya.

The Talia Lancaster she sees is not a deranged old woman. Talia Lancaster is a child, probably younger than Sonya. Well, she is, isn’t she? She was eleven when it all happened.

Talia is pale, almost translucent. Her thin, gaunt face and frail wrists make her almost skeletal. Her eyes are cloudy and bright behind a curtain of dark, heavy hair. 

There are bruises on her forearms, splotchy and hand-shaped. The left side of her skull strangely dented. She drips water onto the floor, pooling at her feet with the blood trickling down her legs. Maria wants to laugh hysterically.

The small, clammy hand wraps delicately around her arm, tugging gently but insistently in the direction of the window. She stands and follows cautiously, wary of what she might find.

The glass is shattered, pieces littering the sill and floor. A few smears of fresh blood stand stark against the fading white paint. Outside, there are shingles broken and torn away in a straight path down the roof. And beyond the edge of the slope, she can make out a dark figure lying unmoving in the grass.

‘That’s Matthew Sullivan,’ Sonya says shakily, coming to stand beside her.

Talia moves in front of the window, miming a push. ‘Whoosh,’ she says.

David arrives on her other side, taking in the scene with wonder. ‘This is the weirdest day I have ever had,’ he mutters. ‘How about we _don’t_ do it again.’

Talia nods emphatically. ‘Safe now.’ Then, after further consideration:

‘Fuck him.’

Sonya wheezes a bit, before agreeing. ‘Yeah, fuck him.’

Talia smiles.

‘Goodnight, Mom,’ Sonya says.

Maria kisses her on the forehead, before moving to tuck in Talia on the other side. ‘Goodnight, kids.’ She smooths Talia’s hair back from her forehead. Big, round eyes follow the motion.

‘Mama?’ she asks hopefully. 

Maria pauses, considering. Is she? She’s not really a good mother, as recent events have thrown into sharp relief, but she sure as hell can be one for this poor child.

‘Yes,’ she decides.

Talia pats her hand and smiles.

‘Tally?’ Sonya whispers.

They both turn to look at her. She points at the clock. 

3:27.

Talia looks at Maria, then back to Sonya.

‘No,’ she says. ‘You see me.’

Then she rolls over and snuggles into the covers.

‘Goodnight,’ Maria says softly.

And Talia smiles, a small, sweet one that almost feels like a secret, as she slowly, slowly fades away.

Sonya leads them out to the copse of trees clumped on the lake opposite shore. ‘There,’ she says, pointing to a willow right on the edge, roots cage-like in the water.

The officer nods and turns to give orders to his men, shouting for them to start digging. They grumble, most likely thinking it a fruitless endeavour, but go about their business anyhow.

Maria settles down to watch next to Sonya, sitting cross-legged in the grass.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yeah. She showed me herself.’

They talk about other things to pass the time. She craves the mundanity of it, the simplicity of enjoying time with her daughter. She might not understand her all the time, but she tries.

She’s glad they stayed. The property is beautiful, after all. The house is, too. David wants it remodelled, though Alex only jumped on the train because he thinks he can convince his father to put a game room in the basement. Maria thinks it could bring some vitality back into the house. Sonya’s ambivalent about it all. It doesn’t matter much, all things considered. It’s a lovely spring day, Sonya is tentatively making friends in her special ed class, Alex is beginning to realize there’s more to life than food and computers, David’s enjoying his remodelling project, and Maria? For once in her life, Maria’s not worried about anything. They’re okay.

‘Sir? I think we’ve found something,’ someone calls.

Frowning, Maria stands, Sonya following, and they make their way over to the tree.

The officer goes white and grim. ‘I believe we have,’ he announces stiffly.

There, nestled in the roots of the willow, are the unmistakable bones of a child’s hand.

_‘Talia?’ Father says. ‘Talia. We’ve been waiting for you. Come say hello to your brother.’_

_Everything is bright. Not bad, like Matthew Sullivan’s flashlight when he found her wandering the cornfield, but comforting, like napping in the sun-warmed grass. She likes it here._

_Charlie is here too. And Mama. She doesn’t know how to feel about Mama. Mama didn’t see her, and then they died. She didn’t mean to. She wanted them to see her, but they couldn’t. She didn’t know she was dead. But then they were dead too and they came here to where dead people are supposed to go, instead of staying in the house with her._

_‘Talia?’ It’s Mama. Her arms are open. She knows people think Mama looks plain, but obviously they’ve never seen her in this place. It’s warmer here. Maybe Mama is warmer too._

_So she pushes aside her doubts and hugs Mama and she thinks that maybe they don’t have to stop changing. Mama hugs her back and so does Father and Charlie._

_She feels warm._


End file.
